


Of Starlight and Ashes

by ykyapril



Category: Sherlock (TV), Stardust - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ykyapril/pseuds/ykyapril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his discharge from the army, John receives a train ticket to Wall from an unknown sender and decides to go on a spontaneous adventure. He ends up in Faerie, the land beyond Wall, and has to go rescue a star and save a kingdom. Along the way, he meets the love of his life and fulfils his destiny. </p><p>In short, this is a Stardust crossover!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mysterious Ticket

**Author's Note:**

> I love love love Stardust by Neil Gaiman (both the book and movie), so I really wanted to write a Stardust crossover. Found this on my computer from eons ago, uncompleted, and I thought I might as well throw this here and finish it.

There was an old nursery rhyme that has haunted John since he was but a wee lad. It goes, _tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar, thief_. If you asked him why he was so scared of it, John would go tight-lipped and refuse to talk all night. Fortunately, only Harry knew about this, and Harry herself was spooked by the events that surrounded the rhyme, though she would never admit that.

It happened on a bright spring day, when John was playing with his friends, in a ball game that Harry had joined in to alleviate her boredom. An old woman had come along, hobbling down the road; across the road was a field where John and his friends were playing. There on the road, the woman had halted, gazing at them with her pale eyes. John had felt the intense gaze, his attention drawn away from the game to instead look at the woman. She was dressed in grey rags, looking like a miserable old woman. John however saw in her a flicker of a beautiful woman dressed in a crimson dress, so red that it looked like blood. She had dark eyes and red, red lips. It was but the briefest flicker, though that was enough to spook John.

The old woman approached them, slowly but surely. She was undeterred by Harry’s harsh words, calling her “an old hag”; even with her pale eyes glazed over with age, her glare was strong enough to silence Harry. “I am here to tell your fortunes, children.” Her voice, though cracked, had held a certain amount of power, an underlying current that had made John shiver. The woman focused her pale gaze on John for another brief moment, before turning to one of John’s friends since kindergarten.

It was then she uttered the old nursery rhyme, the one that would follow John and haunt him even when he was in his adult years. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar, _thief._ ” The woman croaked, as she pointed at each child standing there shell-shocked and utterly frightened of the old woman in front of them, with her long, cracked nail like the sharpest point of a knife. The last word she had directed to John, with a slight change in her tone. It sounded almost menacing, to which John had taken a step back in shock.

The woman seemed intent to advance on him, if Harry had not intervened at that moment, incensed that she had been called a beggar. “Leave us now, you old biddy, or I’ll call the police!” She screeched, waving her arms at the old woman as though she was an annoying bird or pheasant. John had never been so glad to have an older sister.

Afterwards, lying in bed at night listening to his father come in at a god-awfully late hour, John kept on turning the rhyme in his head, feeling puzzled and apprehensive. He knew it was silly, he knew it, but he just could not forget it, the way the old woman had looked at him with almost hatred flaring in her eyes as she declared him a thief.

It was an image that was seared in his mind; that would haunt him even as he grew up to acquire many other titles: _doctor, soldier, medic, Captain_. And all the while, John felt like he was waiting for something, perhaps for the old woman’s words to come true, that one day, he would become a thief.

But he did not lack for much, and so this question his rational side asked never failed to silence his doubts, _a thief of what?_

 

And it was so, that the years went by. John continued to serve in the army, until one day a fateful bullet went through his shoulder, blasting through skin and cells and bone, and coming out in an explosion of blood and flesh. Afterwards, John had fought for his life in a cot in an army tent in Afghanistan, while the hot Afghan sun beat down outside mercilessly on the men who were both injured and uninjured, resting after the ambush at their camp. He fought while they shipped him back home on a special carrier plane, with the medical staff that came with plane; fought while on the operating table.

When he came out of his three-month coma, it was to white walls and grey rails and cranky overworked nurses. London seemed like a drowned man’s first gasps of air after being rescued, until it grew grey and dim when John realised he would never be back in the army, possibly stuck forever with a limp that was an inane product of his mind, and a stiff shoulder that would twinge and hurt whenever the weather turned bad. Nonetheless, John could not bear the thought of leaving London, the place where for the first time he had truly stepped away from his family and the burdens attached to it, not his to bear yet still affecting him.

 

Somewhere in the north of England, on a dark stormy evening, a star fell.

 

It was in this perpetual state of boredom and self-loathing that a very strange letter came to him. It was addressed to no one; in fact there was not even an address written on it. John had found the blank envelope on his doorstep one Wednesday in an exceptionally chilly spring after his ( _ineffectual, time-wasting, mind-numbing –_ ) routine meeting with his therapist. Turning it over in his hands slowly, John felt his blood begin to run just that bit faster, his heart drum just that bit quicker. With the carefulness developed during his medical training, John opened the envelope tidily along the seam.

Inside was one single train ticket, the destination printed in thick black letters: WALL. 

There was nothing else; no letter or card attached to explain the existence of such a ticket, nothing.  John double checked, just to be sure, looking down at his dreary carpet to see if there might be a sliver of a card that might have slipped past. He even opened the door again to see if there was another letter, to explain that it was just a joke, or that it wasn’t meant for John.

Nothing. 

John turned back to the train ticket again, curiosity very piqued. It was a regular train ticket, orange and machine printed. The time of departure was that evening, 10pm at Paddington. John glanced at his alarm clock; it was 5pm. He would have five hours to pack a kit, shower, and have dinner. There was more than enough time for him to do that and more. He would have no problem catching – wait! John’s thoughts slammed to a stop. Why on Earth would he be thinking of following through this obviously stupid prank? Because that was just what it was: a dumb practical joke played by probably someone as lethally bored as him. 

At the very thought, John’s resolve hardened. Why not? It was not as if John had anything else planned that evening, and anything was better than sitting in his dull bedsit with nothing but the telly and four grey walls to accompany him. He resolutely did not think that it was rather because he would like to avoid another urge to take out his (highly illegal) gun and polish it, or worse, put it to better use.

Having gained a purpose, John got up, leaning just that bit less on his cane. He took a worn but sturdy sachet from his army days and began packing the things he believed he would need. John also made a mental note to grab his gun and spare ammunition. It was better to be safe than sorry. However, John didn’t feel nervous, nor was he feeling anxious. He merely felt excited, even though he knew he shouldn’t. It was probably a ruse anyways. If he was lucky, John might find the person who sent the ticket, and if the other person was genial, they could grab a beer together. Or else, John decided, they would be getting a punch to the face.

In any case, he was going to Wall, wherever that was.

 


	2. Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hears rumours about Wall, and beyond it.

To John’s surprise, the train was rather full, with people dressed in all sorts and styles. Most were carrying large suitcases and packs. From snippets of their conversations, John gathered that most passengers on the train were heading to Wall for a fair that was only held every nine years. Although it made the train quite crowded, John could not help but feel marginally relieved; at least he was not heading to a village that held so few people that it could be mistaken for a ghost town. Perhaps the mysterious sender of his train ticket wanted to meet him at the fair? But why would they do that? And then John wondered if it was actually Harry who had sent him the ticket, sneakily leaving it on his doorstep as a reminder for him to get out once in a while, as she had so often told him even during his university years.

With that thought, he settled into his seat, a relatively comfortable chair swathed in the grey velvet cloth of trains; John rested his arms on the armrests and was lulled by the train’s rumbling on the tracks into an uneasy sleep as the train rumbled its merry way up north and towards Wall, its terminus that could only be reached overnight.

John was roused by the commotion that signalled the train’s soon arrival to its terminus. People were removing their luggage from the rails above, speaking in hushed tones since it was still early morning. Blearily blinking the sleep away from his eyes, John got up, leaning heavily on his cane for a moment, and pulled his bag down, accidentally brushing his arm across the green top hat of the gentleman sitting in front of his seat. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.” John apologized as the hat toppled off. The gentleman looked disgruntled for the mere moment he bent down to retrieve his hat, then as he fixed it back on his head, looked at John with a kindly expression as he waved the apology away.

“It’s fine, do not worry.” He said, amicably doffing his hat at John.

“Ah right, thanks.” The queue to get off the carriage was quite long, since people were still retrieving their luggage. “I’m John by the way.” John offered, out of some slight feeling of awkwardness. The gentleman seemed surprised that he was offered a name.

“John.” He spoke as if he were testing John’s name out. “Is this your first time here at Wall?”

“Yeah,” John paused, wondering if he should tell the other about the circumstances of his trip. Then he looked at the gentleman again, and thought that someone in a green top hat should have a higher tolerance of the unusual. “I found a train ticket to Wall in an envelope on my doorstep and decided to take it.”

Well, that sounded way more normal in his head.

The gentleman blinked once and then chuckled. “I see.” He didn’t seem too surprised though, so John thought he was correct in his assumption.

“Are you here for the fair?” The gentleman was definitely dressed for one.

“Ah yes. You have heard about it?”

“Just a little bit from the other passengers. Seems like quite a popular one around these parts.”

The gentleman offered a thoughtful hum, though John was not sure whether it was of agreement or not. “And where are you staying?” John was ashamed to admit that it was then that he first thought about lodgings, having been too caught up in the moment when he received the ticket to even think about accommodation. His expression must have given him away because the gentleman took a look at him and laughed. “I am staying at the Seventh Magpie, as should be many others who wish to visit the fair. You might be able to find a spare room still, if you so wish.”

John had gone to an unknown place on the spur of the moment without much consideration, so he decided that he could afford to throw some more caution to the wind. “Yeah sure, I’d be glad if you could show me the place.”

“Very well, John.”

They got off the train together, John and the gentleman, and the other led John to the inn called the Seventh Magpie at the north of the village, close to a grey slab of stone that John supposed the village was named after.

Inside the Seventh Magpie, it was packed with people. The barkeep had a busy time serving people, and the owner of the inn, Osley Brominos, greeted John and the gentleman in a friendly manner, even though his eyes were slightly guarded as he looked from John to the gentleman. Osley gave them keys to their rooms, explaining to John apologetically that most of their rooms had been booked a while ago and thus he had to give John one of the attic rooms, if he wouldn’t mind.

John didn’t mind, thinking deprecatingly to himself that when one has slept in a bedsit in London, they wouldn’t really mind an attic room. As if the gentleman had heard John’s thoughts, he chuckled. John glanced at him strangely, but the gentleman did not seem to notice as they walked upstairs, bidding John a lovely stay at the attic room. “I’m quite certain it would turn out fine for you,” the gentleman parted with these words as he turned to go down the corridor where his room was. “Perhaps we will see each other again, John.”

It was only when John went into his room that he noticed with alarm that he hadn’t asked for the other’s name, nor had he been offered it. Then he remembered a conversation they had while they were walking to the inn.

_“It would do you well to remember not to offer your full name so easily to strangers, John. You were fortunate today; if you had met someone unsavoury, it may not have ended well.”_

_“Unsavoury? Why? It’s just a name.”_

_“A name has an immeasurable amount of power, and the more you know of someone’s name, the more power you will have over that person.”_

_“You say that like there’s magic.”_

_“You don’t believe in magic, John?”_

_“Well, everyone knows those magic tricks are just sleight of hands.”_

At that time, the gentleman had only given him a considering look, and John had brushed the other’s concerns off as superstition, but now a small seed of doubt had sprouted within him, although John hadn’t noticed.

 

 

Wall was a quaint little village, John discovered as he ambled aimlessly down its worn cobblestoned road, his cane tapping along the stones in a soothing rhythm. Its houses were square and grey and built of granite, stacking on one another in a neat row, dotted with green shrubbery like a thoughtful pause in a monotone of grey. Its residents were not unfriendly, but they thought themselves far superior than these foreigners who took such a long journey just to visit their tiny village. John supposed when you think of it this way, they had a right to feel superior. He was feeling the weariness of the train journey through the twinge of his shoulder.

The one thing that had piqued his interest most was the grey rock wall that surrounded the east side of the village. The rock was not smooth; the wall was made up of square lumps of stone like the whole village was. It was unbroken except for one opening, approximately six feet wide, situated near the Seventh Magpie. Through the opening John could see a green meadow, with small yellow and white flowers starting to bloom despite the residual chill of spring. Tents were being pitched in the meadow, their covers a colourful contrast to the meadow. Though many people, like John, had gathered around the opening to watch the setting up of the fair, they were all not allowed to go through the opening. Two guards were posted at either side of the opening, both wielding cudgels. John could see that it was simply tradition that stopped the people from crossing into the meadow, since the cudgels did not look like a particularly convincing deterrent, at least not to a seasoned veteran.

Shrugging and deciding that his curiosity could be satisfied the next day, since the fair was being held the next day, John turned away from the opening and headed towards the inn for a quick bite and a pint. It was late afternoon, and the pub was starting to be crowded. John took his lager to a small but empty table, near the back, and simply contented in looking at the variety of people that had gathered in Wall just for the fair.

They certainly came from all sorts of places, not just from the United Kingdom. Some were speaking in Arabic, and even in Farsi, John was surprised to find. There were many people in weird and colourful costumes, but as hard as he tried, he could not spot the gentleman in the green top hat.

“Ah John,” Ron Monday had headed towards John’s table while he was thinking. “Mind if I join you a bit? All of the tables are full.”  

Ron Monday was a tall handsome fellow who was the owner of the grocery shop that most people in the village went to. He had inherited from his father; and his father from his grandfather. The Mondays had been the owners of the grocery shop for decades. John had made his acquaintance with Ron when he was purchasing some fruit that looked quite fresh.

“No of course not,” John replied, moving aside to let Ron have more space.

“So, John, how are you finding Wall?” Ron asked, once he settled down.

John picked his words carefully. Coming from London, it would be rather farfetched to say he found Wall exciting, except he did. There was an undercurrent in the people he found at Wall, a certain expectation in their eyes, whether it was for the upcoming fair, or for an entirely different reason, John could not tell. However, John could say for certain that he had not felt this interested ever since he came back from Afghanistan, and that was certainly something.

It was as if there was something else behind the calm, uninterested façade that this little village called Wall was hiding.

In the end, John settled for the typical British reply. “It’s rather quaint and peaceful.”

Ron looked satisfied with John’s answer. “Indeed, John. And we like our quaint and peacefulness. Now, I’ve been one of the few that has ventured out of Wall, once to London. I can tell you, that hustle and bustle of big cities isn’t for me. We of Wall do quite like our peacefulness.”

Afterwards, John would tell you he had no idea why he would ask this, but at that moment, the question had slipped past his lips before he could stop to think about it, “And what about over the wall? I suppose you would venture there more than to London, given the proximity.”

“Oh no!” Ron looked scandalised that someone would suggest them going over the wall. “No one goes beyond the wall. No one sane, at least. Only the strange lot goes there, and sometimes they don’t come back. My grandfather told me strange tales about over there –” Here Ron paused, pursing his lips as if he thought he had spoken too much. Or maybe he had. Either way, Ron shook his head. “We don’t go beyond the wall unless it is the day of the fair, and even then we are extremely careful. You don’t know what sort of spell you might catch over there.”

“Spell?” John asked, his interest caught. His mind went back to the words that the gentleman in the top hat had said.

Ron looked embarrassed, like he had not meant to let that slip. “It’s just some silly tale to scare the children away from the opening. They used to say there was magic beyond the wall, and if you go over, you would be bespelled and then never be able to come back. They said the wall is a protection for the non-magical folk, since magic cannot cross the wall.” Ron shrugged, taking a large gulp from his glass. “But they also say that since the throne of Stormhold – that’s the kingdom of the other side – has been empty for years, the protection given by the wall is growing weaker and weaker. So if the witches cross over, their power may still be intact.”

“Certainly these are just stories to scare children off from getting lost over the other side.” John said reasonably.   

Ron shrugged. “Of course, no one here believes these tales. They make good conversation though, these rumours.”

But the slightly strained smile on Ron’s face seemed to suggest otherwise to John.

Magic didn’t really exist, did it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fair's up next! The pace will pick up soon (hopefully!)


End file.
